Your eyes flicker sunrise and sunset. Fifty times the lights switch, dark amber to onyx to scarlet, and I have lost all rational thought. Are you real? I try to whisper, but as soon as the air left my lips everything dulls and you stop smiling. The world begins to swirl around you and you close your eyes.
It feels like a lullaby once it starts: quiet caresses over cream and sugar, soft silver suicides in the countryside. Is it true? Is it true that you have found someone at last? I hear whimpers and muffled sobs from the west wings, knocking and wet, fleshy sounds from the right wing. The entire building is shaking from the sponge foundations to the chocolate roosters on the chapel top, and I am silent, sliding back and forth.
Petit, you are, my children, plump rosy cheeks and cheveux frisés and smiles wider than the universe. Sometimes you come back and say hello to them, kindly, gallantly in a way that makes me want to kiss you, mon chérie. Sometimes I do.
You used to be a Crusader, back when they still existed. They would wear striped crimson slashes on their torsos, angels in their hair, and boots that went up for an eternity. Never would they lose, and never would they win. Solitaire was a hard game to play, you would insist, and an impasse was inevitable.
Fire was, in my eyes, the physical interpretation of you; bright red cuts and orange flowers blooming in the middle near the core of solid gold. Gold I associated with everyone unlike me and not me, gold was denser and therefore heavier and smarter. I was nothing, maybe like a worn out match left on the ground, fifty times stepped over by stomping men. You liked fire, wiping out a million and one with your flames cheerily.
Darling, when you left my body for dead in France (winter, 1892), I had thought you had given up forever. Was I really worth that little? Were you really that great?
abandoned. might pick up one day.